knots
by tempestshakes
Summary: The two of them, well, they've knotted themselves together and yanked tight. [a collection of unrelated drabble-y things for Beth and Daryl because that's the only thing I have time for at the moment.]
1. tenebrosity

_notes: crossposted from ao3_

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><p><strong>tenebrosity<strong>

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><p>Somewhere along the way love got tangled up in the pain and gore of the <em>after<em>. After the end of the world, after the death of his blood brother, after the collapse of the prison he called home, and after the family unit, the wolf pack, he was loyal to fell and scattered across the moist red dirt of the south. Somewhere the tenebrosity slit in two.

It was Beth's light, unassumingly thin as a wire, as her slender frame, that slipped through his feral shadow and cut open a tender space in his wry heart.

Built from anger dangerous, fertilized with fear, mended with scars and iron, he was a man of the wild wood, but she was made of sunlight and grew rose thorns and could move on soft feet watching his leather-clad back. It was sort of like she built for him—if he dare think such a thing. The way she balanced on the edge of hope and pragmatism, fingertips dancing towards his like magnets and setting his course on the way she swung his internal compass. Beth led him along and he followed, and once he began following it became clear to him he could never stop.


	2. jesus christ, girl

_notes: __+ title from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty_

_+ basically a scrap of PWP_

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><p><strong>jesus christ, girl<strong>

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><p>His <em>hands<em>—

_Jesus. _

His thick hands, rough and trembling like the boughs of a tree, grip her thighs through her blue jeans.

"Beth—_fuck_," Daryl groans and it scalds like hot sin against the tops of her breasts making her breath hitch and toes curl inside her boots.

Mind scattered like a dive bar pinball machine, Beth doesn't know where to place her oh-so-overwhelmed concentration because she's straddling this man made of cords of muscle and goodness, drawing her hips against him without conscious reflection expect—_I_ _need._ Her hands trail down his back, slipping over leather, dried blood, and embroidered wings, yearning like a mad woman for his skin on hers and she feels filthy. Wanton and rank. _Needy._

His mouth is too far from hers all the way down at the v of her half-way unbuttoned flannel, so she grabs him by the muzzle, whiskers setting off sparks against her palm like she's made of fire. She laughs in pure bliss at his being so close and Daryl's sweet answering expression is equal parts lust and hesitance. He cocks his head like a pup and she decides there's only the option of licking into his lips with all the relish and finesse of a horny virgin, and he gives back to her with equal enthusiasm, his groan into her mouth the most unholy thing she's ever swallowed. It's almost as if there isn't enough of Daryl for her to take and take and take. Heart in her throat, he nips at her lips as his hands move up to palm her ass and her body sings louder than any melody she ever did in church.

"I want ya," whispers Beth against his mouth, voice uneven. He grunts, her beast of a man, and his blue eyes settle gazing at hers with a reverent weight. "I _need _you."

"Shit," he murmurs and a look of almost pain flashes across his face. "Shit, shit, shit. Ya gotta stop saying that shit."

Cheeks flushing red, she realizes how far Daryl's gone, how hard she's pushed him, the feel of his swollen cock pressing against her making her body weep. Something primal takes over the sentimental and her cravings blur into one throbbing pull of her heart and her core. "How bad you want me, Daryl Dixon?"

He drops his head to her shoulder and shakes it.

"You can show me? Show me how bad ya _need me_."

She thrusts and smiles through the surge of stars and spine-steeling pleasure.

"Daryl. _Please_."

"Jesus Christ, girl," he growls with something like anger and wonder, and his breath is coming in short, uneven bursts against her neck, blistering her skin with desire, and her blood feels as warm as kerosene set alit. Fingers back to their bruising grip at the meat of her thighs, he keens obscenely like a wounded animal, yanking her throbbing center tightly down and rough against his the inseam of his jeans, his hips jerking spasmodically as he cums rough and most beautiful, the most beautiful thing Beth Greene's ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

A flush of satisfaction and power rolls through Beth's body to pool wetly at her already sopping jean-clad cunt. She runs the tips of fingers through his sweat soaked mess of hair, tickling past his ears, and Daryl shudders, wrecked beneath her delicate touch. Her heart aches. Her heart hums. Oh, her heart—


	3. filthy, filthy

_notes: __So, I'm totally re-writing chapter 2 of my other fic 'animal tracks' because I'm so nervous about how big it is in my head. Like I've never written anything longer than like...30 pages? I don't have the attention span. In order to calm down, I wrote this scene. Haha, avoidance. Ah well_.

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><p><strong>filthy, filthy<strong>

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><p>She stalks him with her gaze in undiluted interest. The sun is hot and bright, light flaring over his broad shoulders, glinting off the sweat slipping from tendrils of his lengthy bangs as he eyes his tacked up target. With his back to her, she's only able to view the rugged profile of his face, lined, weathered, and so goddamn <em>dirty<em>. His penchant for living like a mangy dog makes a giggle bubble up inside her, tickling her belly in toothsome joy, but she understands her presence is only tolerated because of her stealth—

—and also because he might like her, just for being _Beth_…just a little bit.

He keeps the heavy crossbow raised with ease, the musculature of his chest, back, and arms carved and pronounced for her to trace with her stare. He peers over at her, curious and slightly unsettled when he notices her focus. She knows there's nothing to feel embarrassed about, nothing to be ashamed about in admiring, but feels the hot flush in her cheeks anyway and it quickly becomes mirrored on his own face, so childishly open for once and clear beneath the layers of grime. They're two blushing fools beneath a blue Georgia sky.

Makes her warm. Like fresh honey on one of her Mama's buttermilk biscuits on a Sunday morning after church. Like Shawn gifting her with a canvas tote full of new records and tapes with liner notes for her to pore over. Like Judith's first word being '_da_' and seeing Rick's eyes grow red with tears of elation, tugging at his beard like he can't figure out if it's all real. Like Carol's cool hands in hers while they watch a sunrise. Like Carl and Michonne starting their own comic together. Like Glenn's face when he catches a fish with his bare hands in a stream. Like the way her daddy hummed her name before he kissed her. Like Maggie's rank morning breath. Like family and love and love and hope and faith and blood and _love_.

"You ain't even payin' any attention," he grumbles.

A lethargic grin eases across her lips. "I got it."

He stares at her for a moment longer before turning back to his practice shot. He chuffs, "Getting' cocky, Greene."

She doesn't say anything to that. Too much happiness rushing through her.

At her silence, he lowers the crossbow slightly, and says, "Stop starin'."

"Does it make you nervous?"

"Only Nervous Nelly 'round here is Eugene. Fucker nearly set me on fire yesterday when I spooked him comin' from takin' a piss—" he pauses and smirks, eyes lighting up at the memory, "—was accident, of course. Didn't mean to scare the shit outta him."

"Course."

The heat makes the world seemed like it's tinged pink and she sighs.

He mutters, "I just don't get why you're starin'. Stop it."

Even his ornery nature makes her smile and she strides over to him, boots rustling across the forest floor. She stops mere inches from his embroidered leather. "Daryl Dixon, I'm starin' because you're cute."

"Cute?" he stutters and repeats like he's gone stupid.

"Yep," she replies. Her fingers dance up to his back and slip beneath his vest, lightly rubbing against the sweat-soaked shirt of his lower-back. He doesn't let go of the damn crossbow, but his arms begin to shake almost imperceptibly.

"You blind, girl?"

Another step forward has her pressed against him and he smells something awful, but really the whole camp does. She rests her forehead against his shoulder and their sweat slicks together.

Her voice is serene when she says, "Honestly. You're the cutest thing I've ever seen."

Idly, she wonders if she's making him angry by describing him with a word so soft, but he doesn't say nothing for a minute or two, and she takes the pause in conversation to run her knuckles up and down his spine, her other hand stretch around and lying flat against his belly.

When he finally speaks, she listens. "You've never lied to me before."

"Nope," she answers tenderly, popping the _p. _

"So…" he draws in a large breath, "must be true then. I must be the damn cutest sonuvabitch in this here apocalypse—"

She's laughing so hard she might cry, saying, "—shut _up_!"

"—cuter than Judy. Cuter than that ugly ass kitten you were fussin' over yesterday. Cuter than—"

"You may be cute, Dixon, but you're goddamn filthy. I'm afraid if I try to kiss you, I'm just going to end up with a mouthful of mud."

The tips of ears, peeking through his greasy dark curtain of hair, tinge bright red, but when he finally fully turns around, he's got a composed face, slightly keen and curious. He squints down at her like he's puzzling something out.

"Now, you wanna kiss me? Jesus, girl, you ain't blind; you're _crazy_."

But he's saying it as if he's filled up with that warmth too, like he's got some kind of frenetic energy twitching through his nerves, like he's tangled up in something she's cast out.

And Beth beams.


End file.
